


Three is a Crowd (Four is Demonic Possession)

by JohnlockAndATardis



Category: Tanis (Podcast), The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Amalia is a demon, Demonbro might make an appearance who knows, F/M, Love Triangles, MK is jealous, Nic is oblivious, WIP, spooky shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 03:42:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6178909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnlockAndATardis/pseuds/JohnlockAndATardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something strange about Amalia. MK is the only one who notices. </p><p>OR</p><p>That fic where I tried to take demon love triangles (love squares?) serious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

     “I don't understand why you're being so difficult.” Her voice comes over the webcam, complete with the minute crinkle of static that is to be expected of video messaging. She shifts, presumably in a chair of some sort, and the picture distorts if only for a moment, leaving a pixelated trail in her wake, a ghostly visage like something out of Strand’s tapes. His wifi has been slow all day, and if it wasn't for the wind and heavy (even for Seattle) cloud cover, he might think MK was at fault.

  
     “I'm being difficult?” There was a high pitch to his voice, and Nic swallowed the shrill tone before he dared speak again. “You're the difficult one. And why were you even googling this… This…”

  
     “Lamashtu,” Meerkatnip answered, impatient. He could hear the clicking of her blunt nails against a firm surface, her brow cocked up sharply against her dark skin.

  
     “Right…” Nic paused. “So why were you-”

  
     She cut him off, speaking through gritted teeth. “I wasn't googling anything. Your friend Alex asked me to look into a few things while you were...” MK paused. It had been a month since Nic’s sabbatical had been enforced, and she was still uncomfortable with saying anything about it. Except for a long, heated argument a few days after he’d come home (“You do not take tea from hippie cults! And you do not go into the woods with near strangers!”) MK hadn't spoken of it. Now she set her lips firm. “She asked me to look into a few things while you were on break.”

  
     Oh. Nic disliked vehemently  the sharp sting of suspicion buzzing and vibrating in the back of his mind. He didn't wish to place any blame upon Alex’s shoulders, but it was impossible now not to note how peculiarly Alex had been acting as of late. It had started (so much as he could tell) when Alex had first heard the strange voice upon the recording, but when he professed shortly after that their (his and Amalia's) relationship was reforged, the distance between they two had grown. Initially, Nic had placed blame upon the woods, or her lack of sleep, or maybe stress from Black Tapes. Anything to ignore the possibility that stood in front of him now, that something between they two was amiss. Shouldn't she have come to him? Couldn't she have? He was her producer, after all.

  
     “So Alex put you up to this?”  
Meerkatnip’s face twisted, contorting from shock to anger with rapid succession.

     “Put me up to this?” She spoke sharply, with an accusatory tone, her cheeks flushed with a high, angry glow. “You mean saving your ass?”

  
     Nic knew he probably shouldn't peruse this line of thinking, so he quickly changed topic. “So how did you find Lama-”

  
     “Lamashtu,” interjected MK easily, her voice retaining the harsh, cold bite it held before. Nic immediately regretted what he’d said, and felt a flush creep along his neck. “I set up an algorithm with a few key terms Alex gave me, to filter through and find relevant data, stuff she might have missed in her initial search. When my results came back, the algorithm I used had caught a deep web forum, similar to what there was with TANIS but less conspiratorial. Not so much Lovecraftian, more of a focus on Crowley? They were pretty heavy on the whole demon-worshiping business. Really favored pentagrams and inverted crosses and stuff. Anyway, I found a torrent link in an encrypted file that led to the website for something called the Cult of the Shadow? Their website was some dark shit, even for the deep web. Ritual sacrifice, blood worship, they even had that thing, I think you called it the Unsound?” Nic nodded. “Yeah, they had that playing in the background of their website. Aesthetically it looked like the gothic nineties. Lots of devil imagery, black and red color scheme, heavy metal, that sort of stuff. But there was also a lot of the stuff Alex had mentioned.”

  
     Offscreen, there was a minute noise, like sneeze. MK turned her head and a moment later a furry black head briefly emerged, the cat sprawling itself upon what Nic could only assume was her keyboard. Her image jolted, shrunk, and then there was a soft clicking as MK shifted a few objects upon her desk. The cat remained as he was, but a moment later the quality and image size were restored.

  
     “Right, so my program hadn't directly caught this website because it is set to re-encrypt itself every fifty-five seconds,” MK informed him, diving back into their discussion. “I followed down a lead about something called a demon board, and Pazuzu? And that led me to a private chat where the members were discussing the Second Coming.”

  
     Pazuzu and demon boards. Those were familiar to Nic from season one of the Black Tapes. “Yeah, I think the demon board was created to summon Pazuzu,” he informed her. “He was some sort of Sumerian god, I think? I still don't understand what this has to do with Amalia, or Lamashtu.”

  
      “According to every source I could find, Lamashtu was a Mesopotamian goddess, though the chat room described her as a night demon of sorts. Apparently she could appear in the forms of seven different witches.”

  
     “And this has to do with Pazuzu how?” He didn't bring up Amalia again just yet, still trying to wrap his head around all of this.

  
     “Apparently she was a big deal in Sumerian lore. The stories say that she would slay unborn or newborn children, and she fed on the flesh and blood of men. The Mesopotamians would pray to Pazuzu to protect them and their children from her.”

  
     Nic felt certain he must be mishearing. “They’d pray to Pazuzu? This is the same demon god who brings about death and famine?” He’d done his research too, after all. What MK was saying didn't sound possible.

  
     “Seems like.” She shifted on screen, shrugging almost lazily, and again the pixels warped about her moving form. Nic took a moment to process.

  
     “I still don't understand any of this,” he admitted after a moment, rubbing hesitantly at the nape of his neck. “And I don't understand-”

     “What this has to do with Amalia?” MK guessed.

  
     “Well, yeah,” Nic softly acquiesced. He could see her nod, her lips shifting from a tight purse to the faint outline of a frown. She shifted her hands towards the desk and the rapid tip, tip, tap of typing could be heard. A moment later, an image appeared upon his own screen, the screen grab of a webpage from Hell.

  
     It looked exactly as MK had described it to be. A heavy black background with a border mid-flash from a pentagram to a satanic face, the header featured blood which dripped down onto the grey text of the chat forum. He could see on the the left the user information for some five or ten members, some including locations as grim as Hell or the Black Forest, many featuring gory or dark images. Nic suddenly felt as though he had walked into a heavy metal concert only to see blood being thrown on the crowd. He had very vivid flashbacks to his college years.

  
     “Woah,” Nic muttered, mostly to himself, and though he could no longer see in detail her face -she was now a small square in the corner of his screen- he could feel her eyes rolling. “That's…”

  
     “Intense, yeah. So do you see user 0110011110?”

  
     He scanned the page. Three quarters of the way down, there it was. “Yeah. What is that, binary?”

  
    “Mh, looks like, but as far as I can tell it's just jibberish. I wouldn't have even bothered going further, but then I read the comment.”

  
     “Read the comment?” That looked to be less helpful than the username. A long string of numbers divided by a symbol here or there, it looked as though someone had fallen asleep on their keyboard. “What is this? I can't read it.”

  
     “I know. It's a book cipher.”

  
     “A book cipher?” he repeated.

  
     “Each set of numbers represents a different part of a book. The first in the set represents a page number, the second a line, the third a word.”

  
     “Oh.” Nic admittedly felt himself quite foolish for not knowing that automatically. He’d watched enough crime shows, after all.

  
     “Yeah.”

  
     There was a strange quiet. He drew a breath, still looking at the page in front of him, and not at her face in the corner. “So did you find the book?”

  
     She laughed. “Are you serious? Of course I found the book. It’s a Russian novel by Dostoyevsky. The… Dvoynik? It was the original edition in Russian. I ran the code through the book using a program I designed, and then had a friend overseas translate it for me. It was pretty end of days, fire and brimstone, the souls of children devoured -that's where Lamashtu comes in, if you were wondering- shadows coming out of the shadows-”

  
     “What?” Nic couldn't help the brief skip in his heart. It wasn't fear, but excitement of a journalistic sort. He remembered something similiar to that. Shadows coming forth from the shadows… Hadn't that been what the Scriabin’s Mysterium was meant to do?

  
     “Can you send me a copy of the translation?”

  
     “Really?” He could feel the comical disbelief in her voice. “It's already in your email. But that's not what's important.”

  
     “No?”

  
     “No. I traced back the IP address. The post had been routed through a few different servers, so it was difficult to track down at first. After a few hours my computers managed to track down the source. It was posted to the forum the exact day your friend Amalia resurfaced. From Alex Reagan’s apartment.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nic confronts Amalia, MK is not happy, not necessarily in that order. Slight Stragan if you squint, obvious Stragan if you don't.

     Nic could almost hear the sound of the suspense music that would play if this were recorded for an episode of TANIS or The Black Tapes. He could nearly hear the cut, the ad for Audible or the abrupt change of topic. Somehow it seemed more real here, without his recorder playing, just the two of them, a computer, and a truth Nic didn't want to hear. One he didn't want to believe.

     “You’re mistaken,” he proclaims with as much strength of tone as he might muster. His voice sounds weak even to his own ears. It's not that he lacks conviction, per say, and he certainly wants to believe she’s wrong. And yet there's a creeping doubt, MK’s not the sort of person to be wrong. But she has to be. “You're mistaken,” Nic says again, and he lets himself smile faintly. “Somebody must have… I don't know, sent it through Alex’s apartment from a different source?” He felt as though he was grasping at strings, and the more he reached for, the greater grew the knot at the center of this spider’s web he was caught in.

     “It's not from another source.”

     “What?”

     “It's not from another source. The signal, it originated from the apartment. Within it, actually. I think you should be careful, Nic.” Her voice held a tone of obvious concern, and Nic felt a stab of guilt to remember the recording Alex had played for him of MK from the day that he had gone into the forest. The anxiety with which she was the same, and she didn't bother to disguise this with her typical veil of mystery and quick sarcasm. She was genuinely worried, and Nic might have been concerned as well except…

     “I've known Amalia for years,” he insisted as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. How long had he been in front of the computer? He needed to stretch his legs, work his limbs. Maybe he’d go to the coffee house down the street. His eyes cast to the time in the corner. It was six twenty-three, there was no way he should be drinking anything with caffeine this late, especially not with the nightmares he’s been having. Nic sighed. “She’s safe.”

     “Maybe she is, but you aren't. I really don't think you should be spending time with her.”

     “I shouldn't be spending time with her?” Nic crossed his arms in front of his chest. “What does it matter to you? You and Alex both have been acting strange lately.” He speaks in an accusatory way, the same voice Alex has used with Strand on countless occasions, and he doesn't like that such a harsh cadence would take his words. But all such worry departs him with MK’s reply.

     “Because you don't know how to take care of yourself!” Her voice rose both in pitch and volume, as the cat upon her desk raised its head to look lazily up at her, one eye open. MK cast a glance towards the creature, her impatience dissipating for only a moment. “You’re going to get yourself hurt. Again. Or do you need to be reminded of the woods? The cabin?”

     Nic knows that she's just concerned for him, but he's also certain there could be nothing suspicious about Amalia. Sure, her near-cryptic manner of speaking was disconcerting, and Nic had to admit she had a spooky air to her, but that was how Amalia always had been. Yet these traits weren't conclusive of any malicious intent.

    “Don't you think you might be overreacting?” Nic questioned, and again he’s reminded of Alex. MK snorted, her eyes narrowing so much that her thick lashes appeared to touch.

     “Don't you think you might be under-reacting?” she countered. Nic frowned.

     “No, actually. I'm sure there's some sort of logical explanation.”

     “And if there’s not?”

     "I have to go.”

     It was finally his turn to end the Skype call abruptly, though doing so went against the whole of his polite being and clawed at his bones. Nic turned off his computer before she could reboot the conversation, though he felt certain he would have a message waiting for him when he logged back in. Knowing MK, it wouldn't be a kind message.

    Nic retrieved his jacket from where it was draped over his lonely kitchen chair, shifting it on over his shoulders and stepping out from his apartment. Mrs. Johnson was just climbing the steps, her toddler in tow with a pink sippy cup in hand, babbling around the plastic she was drinking from. He nodded politely, letting them step past before he descended the stairs.

     The city at such an early time of night was still alive, despite the black streaking into the indigo sky. Couples found their way into restaurants, a gaggle of teenagers with a varied assortment of oddly colored hair laughed about some joke he was not privileged to, and drivers stuck in the dwindling traffic spoke on smartphones and through Bluetooth to partners, clients, and others. The damp air and whipping wind spoke of a coming storm, but then again in Seattle such was to be expected. Nic drew his jacket tighter, stepping across the uneven sidewalks and past a shop owner putting away a few wares he’d had on display, the tantalizing spice of Thai food tickling his nose. He wasn't certain where exactly he was going at first, until a time later he found himself climbing the stairs to Alex’s apartment.

     Since she’d been in Seattle, Alex Reagan had always stayed lived in the same apartment, on 16th Avenue not far from where it met with East Olive. Her building was pleasant, with a white face, black accent, and decidedly German architecture. It was stout, though the building boasted three levels, broad and long to compensate for the shortness of its stature. Parking was impossible to find if one was not a resident, and he thanked whatever stars or gods above that he had chosen not to bring his car. The wind whipped at him harder and a soft rumble like the protest of Zeus’s rolling baritone foretold the coming of rain. Anxious to find himself inside, Nic crossed the street to Alex’s building, mounting the exterior steps and traversing within, to twin staircases leading to each half of the building. Alex’s apartment was on the third floor to the left, and all too soon he was to her door, hand raised as he knocked upon its black surface, seemingly ominous. There was a rustling within, the quiet motions of someone shifting, and a moment later the bolt was slid out and the door opened.

     It was immediately clear to Nic that Alex must have been working on something Black Tapes related, be it research or otherwise. She was in loungewear, a loose blue t-shirt falling to her hips where it was met by black shorts, loose on her sharp frame. Her hair was drawn sloppily up and her dark brown eyes were framed with deep black circles unmuted by makeup. He was briefly struck by how tired she looked, until she spoke in soft confusion.

     “Nic? What are you doing here?”

     What was he doing here? Like a fish his mouth opened and shut again and again, useless and without the base human ability to make some sort of noise. “I…” Was he going to confront her outright about this? About his suspicion that she had some strange desire to keep him locked from Amalia? It sounded foolish in his head, and he know once he spoke it the words would sound even less credible. Instead, he shut firmly his lips, seeking an answer, an explanation as he stood upon her threshold. He was saved thusly, by a noise within, a rich, deep tenor calling for Alex.

     “Is that-” But Alex’s withering stare told him not to peruse this line of questioning. She gave her response, a promise that she would be to his side soon, before slipping out and shutting the door behind her.

     “His hotel was overbooked. He’s staying here for a few days,” Alex said. Nic laughed, the nature of the situation easing the tension in his muscles.

     “Right,” Nic agreed, his quick smile spreading easily upon his face despite the current worries on his mind. “And Amalia?”

     “Has the couch for a few nights.”

     Nic’s loose grin only broadened further. “So. Doctor Strand?” But the quick furrowing of Alex’s brows warned this was not a path he should soon chose to pursue.

     “Did you need something?” She didn't sound irritable as she spoke, but Alex rarely did. Nic rubbed at the back of his neck, then shook his head.

     “I was just wondering if Amalia was around.” He watched her face closely, but if any shock or displeasure were to be felt and found, her features hid it well.

     “I think she's out doing some work. She said she didn't know when she would be home. Should I tell her you stopped by?”

     “Yeah. Yeah, please.” He smiled faintly at Alex’s retreating form, turning away and descending the stairs once more. Surely, this was all just a misunderstanding.

-

     He’d returned home not too late and was halfway through an article on demonic possession when Amalia called. She confessed to feeling tired, but agreed to go to dinner with him, to give Alex and Doctor Strand some time. They met up at a Polish eatery -Amalia was far too blunt to feign interest in a date of any sort at the traditional Italian restaurant-and were seated in a plum colored vinyl booth. She looked to be weary, with a bit of exhaustion at the corner of her typically bright, adventurous eyes that Nic typically associated with Alex. When she sat, she draped her coat beside her, the faux fur collar delicately tucked beneath the rest. Nic watched her survey the location, seeming almost as though she were suspicious of each new diner that entered, but such was typical of Amalia. After all, the work that she did attracted quite a lot of attention in certain circles, particularly from her unwitting subjects.

     The waiter who handed them their black-covered menus and took their drink orders -tea for her, Nic settled with water- was a college aged young man, with dark skin that reminded him of MK. And of their argument. He was polite, yet spoke almost shyly as he listed the night's special, a soup dish with an unfamiliar name. When he left them to their decisions, Amalia glanced at him overtop her menu.

     “So, Nicodemus.” It was not like Amalia to hesitate, and yet her voice was wary, her eyes not meeting long his own. In fact, she seemed very distracted indeed, her voice appearing almost distant, as though she was in this world and another.

     “Yes?” Nic queried when she did not continue with her line of speech. Amalia appeared almost surprised to be addressed at all, and would blink furiously several times, her lashes -fairer than Meerkatnip’s but just as thick and numerous- flashing against the high of her cheeks once, twice, thrice. Her head cleared, her stare would regain clarity.

     "Alexandra mentioned you appeared… anxious upon your arrival at her apartment.” She speaks with her familiar careful, slow drawl, like a lure drawing in a fish, hooking its mouth with the sharp spikes that came in her smooth tone. Nic casts down his gaze towards her hands. They were fair, with enough strong pigment to mark the creeping veins of her wrists a faint green shade. Nic swallowed hard, not wanting to admit to her now the business that had occurred between he and Amalia, finding it suddenly ridiculous and embarrassing. And yet… She had disappeared for a number of months, and there was that matter of what Alex had -unethically- recorded.

     “I-” Nic paused. “I wanted to ask…”

     “Yes?” She would arch her brow. She seems more herself for a moment.

     “How was Russia?”

     Amalia’s face fell, but so soon that he was uncertain he’d truly seen this, it would stiffen. “Oh. This is of no import.” She smiled but it was strained, Nic could tell. Amalia reached her hand towards Nic and squeezed his fingers gently. “Russia is Russia. Let us drink and talk of happier things.”

     If he was less of a polite person, he might have scoffed. If he wasn't himself, he might have insisted she tell him what she was not saying. Instead he watched their hands and would nod.

    “When you’re ready.” His voice is soft, and if Amalia heard it, she did not respond.

     They stay out late, dinner and dessert, then traversing about the city, exchanging stories as she skillfully sidesteps that which he most wants to know. She asks him about Tanis, touches his forehead and says that he should be more careful. When they stumble upstairs to his flat so late the hour almost could be considered morning, he nearly falls into her. They land upon the bed, a flurry of kisses, sinking into one another and staying that way until the rising sun breaks away the fog of sleep.

     Time to face the proverbial music, Nic thinks.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nic gets roofied AFTER he sleeps with a demon, Tall Paul learns how to use a computer, and MK has some pretty serious déjà vu.

     He’s the first to wake, and makes what he thinks is the gentlemanly decision to let Amalia be as he slips from her side and stands. Her jacket is draped clumsily on his dresser, her sneakers at the end of the bed where they were unceremoniously pushed at the beginning of the night. She’s still wearing her socks, Nic notes as he shifts into a pair of sweatpants, draws on a t-shirt. Amalia shifts in bed as he steps out, but he doesn't think she’s awoken. The soft patter of precipitation above, he’s found, is an effective lullaby.

     In the kitchen, a lonely coffee cup sits in the sink, and Nic for the first time realizes how out of sorts his apartment is. Taking initiative, he throws the two day-old Cantonese containers into a bag, then shifts to open his fridge. When he sees the contents, he forms a grocery list for the first time in what he assumes to be well over two weeks. Brew coffee, wash dishes. It's an easy rhythm, relaxing. Nic falls into the routine of mundane actions, and for a great while he is comforted by a quiet that no longer feels oppressive.

     Then, he opens his laptop.

     “It's about damn time.” Her voice greets him, sharp and irritable. Nic sighed.

     “Have you been waiting there all night?”

     MK laughs sharply, rolling her eyes. “Don't be ridiculous. I put a tracker on your phone.” She raises a black and white coffee mug to her lips -the white, he realizes after looking closer, is binary- and takes a long drink. Nic blinks.

     “A tracker?”

    "Yeah. After you didn't come online last night, I remotely accessed your phone and had an alert set for your first activity of the morning.” She said this casually, as though discussing with him the alarm functions of her clock. He’s not in the mood to argue with her.

     “Are you come to scold me?” Nic dryly inquired, leaning back and cupping his coffee mug in his hands, the warmth radiating through his palms. Amalia arches sharply her brow, and he notices how tired she appears.

     “Should I be?” The harsh note of her voice warns that she knows. Nic sighs.

     “I think you’re being unreasonable.”

     “I think you have a death wish,” she responds in that cool, knowing voice of hers, the one they makes him believe she's hacked the Pentagon and learned all the world's dirty secrets. “There’s something off about her, Nic.”

     Somewhere in his apartment, Nic hears a noise, and his heart bounds up to his throat. “Can you-” he swallows hard. “Could you be quieter?”

     “Are you hungover?” But the noise comes again, followed by Amalia’a voice, distant but clear enough to be heard through the thin walls. And over the internet, apparently. MK’s lips tighten. “Or are you high? She spent the night?”

     “How did you know-”

     “Really?”

     Right. Nic darkens in color, he knows the question was one to which he would find no answer and with which he might spark her anger. She does know everything, after all, and routinely he forgets this. But whatever shame he might feel for asking something so pointless vanishes like smoke and leaves him with the embers to light his own fire. He feels more than protective of Amalia and her image, he feels angry that Meerkatnip is treating him like this. Treating them both this way. “She’s not-” She’s not what? He couldn't even think what it was MK was accusing her of. Of being an internet creep? Of being a demon? Honestly, Nic just doesn't know anymore. MK almost seems amused by the distress on his face, her lip quirks up, and yet it almost seems to be a cruel gesture. Nic gathers himself, stuffs the overly vibrant emotions back down where they can simmer and boil and then die down.

     “She’s not… Whatever you think she is. She’s just-”

     She’s just Amalia. He wants desperately to repeat his sentiments from the day before and to insist that she isn't dangerous. But too long lingering on too many thoughts he’d like to suppress and not enough to occupy his idle hands have led him to believe that can't be so. Whatever this thing is, whatever’s happened in Russia, it proves that Amalia at the very least is capable of fending for herself. Of angering a political party worth of corrupt men. Saying he doesn't think she’s dangerous is like saying he doesn't think the stationary electric fence or a solitary and isolated atomic bomb are dangerous to those who might approach, and with all that's happened because of TANIS, Nic isn't certain he should be in the business of lying to himself. Certainly Amalia doesn't pose him much risk directly -he thinks of himself for a moment as collateral damage and then winces at how morbid such a thought was and uncannily his internal monologue sounds like that of an angsty teenager.

     “Nicodemus?” Amalia’s familiar call cuts through the heavy, uncomfortable silence that hangs between he and MK. He turns in his swivel chair -nearly toppling himself over in the process- and fixes his eyes upon the voice’s source. She looks… She looks good. Nic had never forgotten how good Amalia looked -it was impossible and he was almost certain the image of her was seared into his memory, really. But seeing her standing there in his kitchen, in one of his countless concert t-shirts from the nineties and even earlier (thrift store shopping might as well have been what he got his degree in) is a sight that puts his tongue in knots. He thinks of when they first met, how they would lose each other for hours in the other’s arms, how five minutes could feel like a lifetime that he would willingly give his own for. He almost wishes she would pin him up against his desk and… Well, he was simply too polite, too Canadian, to think such things. At least, right now. And Amalia is far too composed to fall into such collegiate antics. Especially when her eyes are now casting towards the computer, and he notices that she’s wearing the jeans from before. He wants to ask her to move some of her things in here, but he knows what the answer will be. And yet, at the same time an entirely different and shockingly similar thought dares to invade his conscience. Nic blinks, scolds himself, and then follows his gaze. MK does not look amused by the whole of the situation, and he doesn't feel that way either. There’s a certain irony, Nic thinks, in the fact that it is Amalia who defuses the tension. Tries to. Or, at least, tries to make it seem like she’s diffusing the tension. It doesn't help.

     “Nic, this must be your hacker friend.”

     “Oh, uh, yeah.” He swallows the lump creeping up his neck and clears his throat, seeking to and failing at the withering pixelated gaze MK fashions specially for him. “This is Meerkatnip.” Nic cast his eyes back her way. “Are you leaving?” He wishes he could ask her to say. He’s almost glad she’s going. Somehow, both of those make him feel guilty.

     “Alexandra needs my assistance and I promised to meet with a possible source for a lunch.” Amalia’s fingers find his shoulder, creep up his neck where he can feel the smooth curve of her nails. They longer there for a moment and then, like she, flee his flesh. He thinks as the audible and easily distinguished noise of the door clicks unlocked that his ears detect something else, something like her voice, but when he turns his head she’s gone.

     “I am a cyber information specialist,” she declares through gritted teeth. “And I will leak every detail of the internet history from the next person who calls me a hacker.” She spits the word angrily, face contorted with a rage he suspects is more from the speaker than the speech. Nic heaves a sigh, twists at his hair. His only thought of grace is to thank whatever powers that may or may not be for the fact that the animosity is from MK to Amalia and not MK to Alex of between Alex and Amalia. Although he thought again of how peculiarly Alex had been acting with regards to Amalia since her return.

     “She didn't mean any offense by it,” he tries to defend.

     “No?” MK coolly replies. “So she’s never listened to your podcast?”

     “That’s not… I'm sure she has but she probably forgot… Why are you being this way? What’s your problem?”

     Her eyes narrow. “My problem is that you keep putting yourself in increasingly dangerous situations with no regard for yourself, at all.”

     “My relationship with Amalia is not a dangerous situation, and I don't know why you're so bothered by it in the first place!” His voice booms through the room with all the frustration he’d been keeping pent up, not just at her but about TANIS and the woods and this ridiculous sabbatical he’s been forced to take and all of this business with demons and conspiracies and threats against his life. Amalia is the one thing that makes sense and is most solid in his life, and he’s not ready to have that be torn away from him and ripped apart, illusion or not. And MK seems to get that. Her sigh is like a white flag, soft and subtle, a ceasefire. The words that follow carry a sharp sting.

     “Fine, get yourself killed.” He knows she doesn't mean it, knows that this is MK’s way of trying to take care of him, especially after The Incident. But he's an adult, he can fend for himself. “I sent you over some stuff. You should take a look.”

     “Alright, thanks.” But she’s already gone, a blip fading out of existence upon the monitor. Nic locates the files in his email, pulls open the attachments and begins digging. She’s included some more lore on Lamashtu and Pazuzu, on all of the immediate Mesopotamian gods actually and even a rogue article or two by professors he’s never heard. There’s an abundance of information, Nic finds, on the connections between the gods of early civilizations and those of later Judeo-Christian sects. Most of these such texts Nic towards to Alex, and he wonders as he does if Strand will be there at her side to help her decode their meanings. He can vaguely envision the two of them, knee to knee on Alex’s sofa, laptops resting before them at the coffee table, but he doesn't like the pang of envy he feels when he considers domesticity, nor the guilty thoughts that follow.

     Stupid, Nic thinks to himself, of himself. He reaches for his coffee for the first time since Amalia left, barely noticing how cold and bitter it’s grown as he takes the whole cup with a long swallow. The mug lands too loud against his desk when he returns its empty self, like cannons echoing in the quiet apartment. His thoughts linger on this for a moment, on how eerie that silence is, and the longer he considers such things the stranger he feels. Nic tries to work, to focus on the task at hand, but with this heightened awareness and the macabre mythical subjects of his current research, he can't help but to feel as though he’s being watched. Nic knows what he would say if Alex were to call him with the same symptoms -that dark subject matter and a quiet day make for obvious and understandable paranoia. He would suggest she shuts down for a while. But he isn't Alex, and no one’s called yet, so Nic steels his resolve. Leaving the gorier articles for a sunnier day, Nic settles himself into reading about the historical significance of the feast days related to ancient gods.

    And that’s when he realizes it’s stopped raining.

    Anywhere else in the world, this might not have been so strange. But the forecast had called for rain throughout the day, and given the dampness of that week he’d believed it. The sudden hush of the skies feels wrong, and again he finds himself hyper aware to everything. His heart is so heavy and fast in his chest he is almost certain the neighbors hear its fearful rhythm, as his breath begins to draw shallow. Nic rises, finding him unstable on his feet. His head whips around towards the windows, and a blur accompanied his vision, marring it. There’s a sound like a cry, a terrible and animalistic screech but he can't pinpoint his attention, his eyes won't focus. By now he's stumbling, searching almost blindly with his newly-impaired vision as though caught under water. He tries to make a noise but nothing comes out. Frantic now, Nic stumbles forward. He trips over something, a rug or a cord or a chair leg he does not know what, and as he descends he thinks perhaps he heard a voice, but certainly that cannot be right.

     Before he can think too long, he is enveloped.

-

    Meerkatnip knows something is wrong when he doesn't answer his phone. Or, to put it more clearly, when he doesn't answer his phone when she calls, sends ten text messages, and then, finally, remotely accesses his computer. At first she thinks he must have closed his laptop but no, that can't be right, she’s most certainly receiving footage of something. The image that plays on her screen from his webcam his grainy, but she can see that there’s light coming from somewhere, breaking only just through the wall of blackness in his apartme-

     Something flashes across the screen. The background no longer seems so dark, not in contrast to that… thing. She doesn't know what it was, but she can tell that it's bad news. And she's worried. The feed is too quiet, too strange. There is something in there, but it makes no more as it crosses again the laptop, seeming to be searching for something.

    It steps back. Pauses in front of the laptop. And it looks right at her. She is frozen, she can't move, and that thing, that creature, it knows she is watching. With a form composed entirely of shadows, MK remembers distinctly every childhood nightmare she’d ever had and every scary movie she’s ever watched. This thing takes the cake, it beats them all out. Standing at least seven feet tall, the creature must stoop to look through the webcam, making all of this even eerier. Its face has no features, but she almost feels as though this creature is grinning at her, his head cocked in a frightening manner, so much so she expects this thing to spin his neck around and reveal its true face. But it does none of that. Instead, the creature reaches over, and with clear deliberance and knowing, kills the feed.

     She’s shut down her own computer before the image stream can even alert her to being offline.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tall Paul turns out to be the good guy, Nic finally realizes what Amalia is, and MK comes to the rescue.

     He awakes in the woods, and decides instantly that he despises them. Or, if he were feeling more lucid, he would probably decide something along those lines. Such a thought proves to be too coherent for his current state. Everything is heavy, muted and yet somehow not. The world is a blur, but the images he captures as his head turns this way and that are overwhelmingly sharp and clear. He is a slow-motion camera set to observe the changing world, his eyes cataloging the streaks of pine blurring into the image of a dark blue sky. _Night_ , he somehow finds the facilities to think. His breathing shallows, his heart rate quickens. Night. It is night, and he is alone in the woods.

    Something crackles behind him. Oh. Not alone then. That, he realizes, is worse, much, much worse, and Nic knows he should be afraid. He is, and, vaguely he's glad of that fear, strange as such a statement might prove. Nic knows if he can feel fear, then he must understand the magnitude of this situation. He is slow to piece things together. Morning. Amalia. MK. Coffee. Darkness. They come as a string that he strains to link, a broken chain. Something is missing, he thinks. Nic strains, stretches, wakes his brain and monitors his body. There's something wrong with it. Numbness, he thinks. But no, that isn't it. The pins are at his fingers and his toes, that must be the cold. Nic shifts his arms, finds a tight resistance keeping them together. Cuffs, he thinks, but then again there is no sharp metal bite. Rope then, twine? He tries to spin around to see, but such an action only brings a twisting to his navel. He finds himself on his knees, bent against his tight bonds as he empties the meager contents of his stomach. Somewhere, he hears a tsking, and it is both snakelike and human. Each part scares him in equal measure. He knows that voice, and yet he also does not.

     “Oh, Nic, I am so sorry you had to be here.” There is a soft thud, then another, the falling of footsteps almost muted against ground softer than it ought to be. His hands strike out in search of purchase, finding that only air will meet their grasp. He rolls to his side, onto his back, until he finds himself staring up into a very different type of darkness.

     There is something decidedly unnerving about Amalia’s appearance. She is herself -coffee house, 80’s band t-shirt, hair pulled back, Amalia- and yet she is not. In all his time of knowing her, Amalia had walked strong, tall, but there had always been an ease that relaxed people, a cool temperament which swept through those who had met her. Now that was turned to a chill, and Nic could feel fear swelling throughout him. She is a stranger in the mask of a friend, Nic thinks. He knows Doctor Strand would not approve of his next thought -something about conclusions and forward motions- but he knows in an instant that MK was right. There is something _wrong_ about Amalia, desperately wrong. It isn't just the stance either, or the serpentine hiss that has consumed her voice. It takes him a moment to notice in the fading sunlight, in the shadows, but when he sees it, the fact becomes one he cannot think to ignore, glaringly obvious to the point of taunting his slow uptake.

     Her eyes are black.

     Engulfed with shadows that seemed to pierce through any darkness with the harshness, they look cruelly down at him. He remembers what Alex had told him. He remembers the shaded figures in the videos, frightening yes, but easily excused. This was not something he could easily brush away as a lense flare or otherwise, not when it was so close.

     She captures him with a fair hand that strikes out to pull him upwards, onto his knees. “What a shame it is. Alexandra will not be so happy to communicate with myself when they find your body. Your hacker friend will no doubt tell her nasty little truths. But she’ll come around, yes?” Amalia’s fingers at the collar of his shirt tightened, thin and spidery. “Alex is so important to what comes next, after all.” Her lips turn up into a grin that was both her own and not. “Yes, we need Alexandra for now, and her good doctor.”

     His face twists into a scowl. Who was this stranger who had taken over his friend? Who had slipped into her body? “Alex,” he repeats. Not-Amalia nods, smiles. She is cruel.

     "A perfect vessel,” she (it, they?) confesses. “Such a pity we’ll have to lose you.” Amalia wraps her fingers now about his throat, drawing up and slowly beginning to squeeze. “But you're inessential, Nic, and your dear friend has gotten too close. I hope now she'll learn to step away.”

     He can feel the oxygen being stolen from his breath as her fingers dig deep into the flesh of his throat. The heel of her palm pressed at the base of his neck and brings forth strangled cries as he strained against her harsh force. Her black eyes stare deep into his own, watching him as she stole his life. The world once more begins to blur, first at the edges and then sinking deeper into his vision. Nic thrashed violently under such a grip that was far too strong, far too much. He cannot resist the strength of her grasp, a cry escaping his lips. Tighter, and tighter, he seems to be falling back. He thinks he will die like this, and no one will know the truth of him. There will be no one to warn Alex, or Doctor Strand, or the interns that she's dangerous, that she's a monster. 

     All of a sudden, he is violently released, forced backwards onto the ground. Nic strained for his bearings as blood and air rushed back through his veins, flooding his brain with a sudden burst of stars. He could not see for a moment, or rather, could not process the images which passed across his field of view. There are two blurred figures which dart and dance, and as the blood rush fades and his gaze focuses, he realizes one of them is-

     “Meerkatnip?” Nic softly groans. Her gaze tosses towards him, until it captures Amalia again. MK throws herself against Amalia, using the weight of their bodies and sheer momentum to toss them both to the ground. A heavy thud and a grunt streaks through the air, and the two wrestle on the ground. Above, thunder crackles angrily, and wind pushes through the spruce trees, tossing their limbs about in the same manner as a child to a rag doll. Electricity charges in the air, sending the air along his skin prickling. Nic struggles to right himself, first to his knees and then straining until he finds himself to his feet. He can only hobble with the rope cutting into his ankles, and he knows he needs to get out of these bonds if he wants to be of any help.

     Nic stumbles towards the trees in an awkward hop, falling against the rugged and knobby edge of the spruce trunk. It digs into his back and is frigid at his skin. Had the air been this cold before? He didn't think that it had. Lightning splits open the sky in a shattering of violet, white, and blue like ice and glass breaking in a fire too hot to be measured. It is met by another clap of thunder, and as Nic turns his head towards the sky he can see the clouds winding dangerously together. They weave, trails of black smoke that erupt in gallons and gallons of rain running him through. He tastes sulfur, or maybe he just smells it, he can't be sure. Everything is overwhelming and overpowering, and when he sees what comes next he can't be sure that any of this is real, and it's like being back in the cabin again, and everything is horrible.

     A streak chases across the sky and trails down until it is striking against a tree with a violent force that splits the very ground on which they stand. The tree cracks and hisses as fire boils along its spine and the smoke which is emitted writhes until it has the form of a man. Or, maybe it's a man. It has long limbs, impossibly long, fingers that nearly scrape the ground in a claw-like form, and a shape like a hat atop a featureless head. It stalks forward, appearing cognizant of all which had and was happening there in that clearing, amongst the waving trees. He -it- slinks towards, walking in a manner that is more like gliding, and wraps its fingers around Amalia’s throat as she wrestles with Meerkatnip. They curl several times around her neck like horrific tentacles, raising her off the ground. When the creature speaks, it is in a guttural growl that chills his blood, unintelligible to Nic. Amalia seems to understand, she speaks back in a similar tongue, stained by that accent so similar to a snake’s hissing. Their voices battle until words are not suitable weapons, and the wispy black figure flings Amalia. She crashes into a tree, momentarily dazed but not long out of commission. Quick to her feet, Amalia aims to return her strike, but what good are fists against smoke?

     “Now do you believe me?” MK demands as she materializes at his side. She’s quick to free his legs first, then his arms. Nic glances at her figure -she’s fairly battered, with tears at her clothing and minor cuts that track up her arms and what is visible of her legs. A gash rests under her eye, blood spilling out where there is no doubt to be a wicked bruise.

    “I believe you,” he confesses.

     "Good. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

     Nic takes a moment to frown, to consider the situation, their options, their choices. He glances at the scene before him, a sight like that of a horror movie. Nic wants to protest -he can't just leave Amalia- but MK is pulling his hand, dragging him out of the forest. He follows her blindly through the darkness, past tree branches which whip him in the face as they run. They don't stop until they've reached her car.

     He thinks that the police must not be too happy to see him again when he passes through the glass doors to the station. They take his station dubiously -how exactly does one explain a shadow figure that's come to life?- and when both of them have been cleared by a doctor, they're released. Nic thinks that he should call Alex, but if he were to be honest, he just doesn't want to, not now. He's exhausted and overwhelmed, and now that everything has calmed down he's still processing what happened. MK drives him home, and when they get there she walks him to his door. There, just before his threshold, the two stand. She smiles in that tight way of hers, just a twitch of her lips, and pats his cheek gently.

     “Get some sleep,” MK says, pushing open the door behind him. It pops into the room, and for a moment he thinks about how she could have gotten into his apartment. Certainly it is in a state of disarray, and Nic has a brief vision of MK forcing her way through the door, jimmying the lock. He lifts a turned-over chair and steps over a broken mug, heading for his his bed. All of this can wait, he still has his tomorrow. 

     The next morning when he wakes, her car is still there. She hasn't left him, and Nic knows no one is getting past Meerkatnip.


End file.
